Mornings. A poem by Naomi Crosby

Mornings are my litmus:

Always a lark, I make energy from the dawn,
from birdsong, the light, the smells.

I’ve got up at crazy hours to see the sun rise over pack ice
or project orange onto a cliff face;

I’ve walked amongst bears and looked back
to see the boat rise out of the mist.

I grasp the day firmly and don’t let go.

No longer, not now.
By 8am I’ve had breakfast, read the paper, social media
And forgotten what it was I was going to do.


Naomi lives in Derbyshire (would have been moving to Somerset if it weren’t for the virus) and will be published in the Places of Poetry anthology later this year

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